


the grass is green

by renecdote



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Found Family, Gen, He gets love at least, He sort of gets one?, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Angst, Some Fluff, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, as soon as he figures out that it's been there the whole time, robin tim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:35:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28885476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renecdote/pseuds/renecdote
Summary: “Thank you,” he says gratefully, huddling close under the dryness of Bruce’s cape. “Sorry you had to rescue me.”Bruce looks at him for a long second, face impossible to read. Then he shakes his head and says, in a tone that feels far too serious for the occasion, “I will always come for you if I can. Never forget that, Robin.”Aka four times Bruce keeps that promise.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 18
Kudos: 182





	the grass is green

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rocket_rach](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rocket_rach/gifts).



> Happy birthday Rachel my love 💛💛 Sorry it's a year late.......... 
> 
> The poem quoted in section 2 is part of _Watery Grave_ by George Bernard Shaw.

**1**

The crowd is—swarming, Tim thinks, swarming like insects. There was a documentary on ants playing late last night, the low monotone of the narrator talking over a high-resolution close-up of bright red fire ants swarming over a weakly struggling calf. _Although the ants are only small, their venomous sting and large numbers allow them to easily overwhelm and kill their prey._ Tim feels uncomfortably like that poor calf in this situation, helpless amid the swelling crowd of socialites and journalists and Gotham wannabes vying for Bruce Wayne’s attention.

He wants to reach out and grab a fistful of Bruce’s jacket, but he doesn’t. It wouldn’t be… They’re not _like_ that. Tim isn’t his son, he’s not supposed to need to hold onto Bruce’s hand in public, or demand his attention, he’s just—he’s just _here_.

He doesn’t even know why some days. Why does Bruce let him continue to hang around? Tim isn’t his responsibility. He’s not even good at being Robin. Bruce could go out and find any other lonely kid and probably end up with a better partner.

(His shoulder still aches from patrol last night, his back is still mottled with bruises, his headache isn’t quite gone despite what he told Alfred.)

It doesn’t make sense. Tim hates things that don’t make sense. He hates feeling unsure and out of place and—and fuck, he loves being Robin. Why does he have to love being Robin so much? It would be easier for everyone if he didn’t.

(Especially himself.)

The parties though; those he doesn’t like. Never has, probably never will.

It doesn’t take long for him to get separated from Bruce in the crowd. Tim looks away for half a second and Bruce is just—gone. Vanished. It makes him feel like a kid again (reminds him that he still is one). His mother lost him in a plant nursery once. She let go of his hand to pick up some seedlings and Tim was only four, maybe five, the colours were so bright, he only wandered a few feet, he’s pretty sure, but suddenly he was alone.

(The way he remembers it, in his probably-distorted memory, Janice didn’t think to look for him until she was back at her car, almost a full hour later.)

(He probably remembers it wrong.)

Tim tries to back up to a wall. Any wall. His mind is swimming with thoughts about vantage points and breathing room and—

A hand grabs his elbow.

Tim yanks his arm away, jaw locking around a silenced cry of pain when the ache in his shoulder flares into something sharp and throbbing, “Don’t touch me,” he snaps.

“Tim.” Hands on his shoulders now, the touch gentle, cautious, turning him so he can see Bruce frowning down at him. “Are you okay?”

Tim sags in the hold, then forces himself to straighten up when he realises what he’s doing. “Bruce,” he breathes. “I thought I lost you.”

Bruce’s smile is a little crooked, a little fake, still performing for the people all around them, but the concern in his eyes is real. “Commissioner Gordon called me over. I thought you were right behind me.”

Tim peers around Bruce’s bulky frame and sees the silvering moustache of the commissioner.

Bruce squeezes his shoulder—the one that doesn’t hurt. “Okay,” he says. “It’s okay. How about we find a table and sit down? I keep getting turned around amongst all these people.”

That’s not true. It’s probably the opposite of true. Tim nods anyway, smiles, and lets Bruce pretend for both of them he’s not doing it just for Tim.

**2**

“ _Rob… t’s your… ation… go in…it’s dang…s…_ ”

The radio fizzes and crackles around Bruce’s words and when Tim taps at it, it gives a high pitched whine and dies completely. He flinches away from the sound, wincing at the flash of pain through his head. Shit. Injured, trapped, soaked to the bone—and now he doesn’t have a way to call for help. They all carry a small flare device to send up an emergency distress signal if need be, but the waterproof casing cracked under the same beam that has Tim trapped, and now it’s useless.

He tries again to get a grip and lever the steel beam up enough to move, but he’s pretty sure at least one of his fingers is broken and he can’t get a good hold on it without pulsing pain.

“‘Lets split up, Robin,’” he mutters to himself, mimicking Batman’s logic earlier. “‘It will be easier to catch them, Robin. It’s not like they are Arkham rogues, Robin, what could possibly go wrong?’”

The answer to that is everything, apparently.

Just Tim’s luck.

He’s starting to wish he’d just stayed home tonight, faked a toothache or something. Surely the cold silence of his parents’ empty home would have been better than this.

Something seems to move in the water. Tim stills, straining to see it again, trying desperately to ignore the montage of _most dangerous animals in Gotham Harbour_ spinning through his mind. He had a science teacher last year, a young woman with a limp and a passion for marine biology, who spent a week teaching them about mutations caused by toxic waste in waterways, before the principal came down to the class himself to make sure she stuck to the assigned curriculum.

(Tim had done some extra research himself after that, finding images that were as repulsive as they were fascinating. He decided then and there that physics was a much better area of interest.)

The movement doesn’t come again, so maybe it was just his imagination, or a trick of the light. Aside from the ripples every time Tim shifts, the water is still and silent. Cold, too, and growing colder with every stretching minute. He shivers; and thinks distantly that that’s a good thing.

Unbidden, his mind flashes back to the poetry they read for English Lit last week:

_Mine will be a watery grave,_

_I feel it in my bones,_

_Men will me in canvas sew,_

_And weigh me down with stones._

There's a bit in the middle he can’t remember and then the lines:

_My duty done I slip away,_

_Into the watery depths so deep._

The beam shifts in the water and Tim sinks lower, tipping his head back to keep it desperately above water. _It’s not stones, but it’ll get the job done_ , he thinks a little hysterically. He scrabbles desperately at the beam, ducks his head under the water and tries to pull his leg out, but he comes back up gasping without success.

“Robin?” sounds an echoing call.

 _Over here_ , Tim thinks, and it takes a moment before he remembers he has to say it out loud. Bruce’s footsteps splash closer and then a flashlight flicks on. Tim screws his eyes shut when the light finds his face. A second later it’s gone and he cautiously opens his eyes to find Bruce crouching on a (probably stable) slab of concrete beside him.

“Hi,” Tim says, a little breathlessly.

“Hi,” Bruce replies. He might be smiling a little bit, but it’s hard to tell. “You need a hand?”

“Please.” It comes out only a little bit desperate. “I’m kind of stuck. A little bit.”

Bruce grunts. His flashlight plays over the water, cutting through the darkness to show the mess underneath. “Can you move you at all?”

Tim wriggles. It just makes him sink deeper. Bruce grabs a handful of his collar and pulls him back up.

“Okay,” he says. “Stay still, I’ll get you out of here.”

And because he’s Batman and they’re partners and saving people is what Bruce does, he does get Tim out. Bruised and a little bit broken, but okay. Alive.

“Thank you,” he says gratefully, huddling close under the dryness of Bruce’s cape. “Sorry you had to rescue me.”

Bruce looks at him for a long second, face impossible to read. Then he shakes his head and says, in a tone that feels far too serious for the occasion, “I will always come for you if I can. Never forget that, Robin.”

It’s not an easy lesson to take to heart, but Tim nods. He’ll try.

**3**

The rain runs down the window in jagged rivulets. Tim starts at the top, following a drop as it slides down, crooked path merging into the trail of another drop, gathering on the sill before spilling over and running off the edge. Backlit by the bulbs of light lining the driveway outside, the rain looks like glitter.

Tim can still hear the music from the party downstairs, but it’s faint, an impression of music more than words or melody. There is the buzz of voices too, occasionally growing sharper when a couple or friends brave the rain and cold for a moment alone outside. If he cranes his neck, he can see their shadows over the lawn. But he came up here to get away from all the people, so he doesn’t bother straining to pick them out.

“There you are,” Bruce says from the doorway. “When Alfred said you snuck off, I thought you might have gone downstairs.”

Tim shakes his head. “I just needed a moment.”

(It’s been nearly forty minutes—that’s just over twenty-six moments, if he wants to be precise about it.)

Bruce picks his way around furniture in the dark, coming to stand just behind Tim, hands settling in his pockets. There is room on the window seat for him to sit down as well, but he doesn’t. It makes Tim think of the night he found out his parents had been kidnapped. Bruce finding him in the dark, offering comfort but keeping that distance (always keeping that distance) between them.

“Sorry,” Tim says. He stares hard at the rain on the window instead of looking at Bruce, but he knows Bruce well enough now that he can feel the surprise and confusion mingling in the silence.

(Mostly confusion.)

(Tim wonders, sometimes, whether Bruce is so unsure with all kids, or if it’s just him.)

(He’s pretty sure it’s just him.)

“For what?” Bruce asks.

Tim shrugs. Nothing. Everything. “Leaving your birthday party.”

Bruce waves the words away. “It’s just a party. I was never fond of them as a kid myself.” He chuckles. “I’m still not, but don’t tell Alfred, he’ll find a reason to throw one every time I do something wrong.”

Tim smiles a little, in the space that the secret has filled between them.

“I can’t remember the last time I had a birthday party,” he says.

The words make Bruce frown. “Don’t kids have birthdays in middle school anymore?’

It’s hard to tell sometimes, whether Bruce is being oblivious on purpose, giving him an out, an excuse, a way to sweep his sad childhood under the rug. Batman is one of the smartest people Tim knows. But Bruce Wayne? He can be a little… out of touch with the rest of the world.

Tim turns the question over in his head, then neatly side steps it. “I don’t really like parties. I think I’d rather spend my birthday by myself.”

It hurts less, if he tells himself that’s the truth.

“That’s okay.” Bruce’s voice is steady and reassuring. “People can be... hard."

Tim nods, even though that isn't really what he meant.

Buck hesitates—Tim watches it happen, the unnatural uncertainty carried in his shoulder—then he says, "But do you think… maybe, for a bit, we could sit here alone together?”

Tim smiles, hoping it doesn’t look too eager. “Sure. That sounds alright.”

It sounds like the best idea he’s heard in... days. Weeks. Maybe forever.

Bruce sits down and they exist there together, the silence companionable, listening to the sounds of the party muted by the rain until Alfred comes to find them.

**4**

When Tim was young, he used to think he could slip right through a hole in the fabric of the universe and his parents wouldn’t even notice. He would be there one moment, gone the next, and their lives would continue uninterrupted. Better, even, without a child they had to remember to come back to.

When Tim does slip through a hole in the fabric of the universe, his parents aren’t around to notice. It is Batman who lunges for him as he falls. Batman who screams for him. Batman who looks utterly terrified in the last blink before he is gone.

There isn’t nothingness at the end of the fall. Tim lands at the bottom with a bruising thump and opens his eyes to see clear blue sky.

“—ou alright?” someone asks and—it’s Bruce, that’s Bruce’s voice, Tim knows it before the hand grabbing his arm pulls him up to look at Bruce’s face. A little smoother, a little less scarred, but definitely Bruce. Tim blinks at him, brain addled and confused.

Tim shakes his head, trying to clear the fuzziness. “Where am I?”

“Wayne Manor,” Bruce replies. “You fell through the sky.”

Through. Not from. Something about the wording strikes Tim as… odd. He wants to ask this Bruce if he’s Batman, if he knows something that Tim doesn’t. But he shouldn’t. He doesn’t. Rule number one of time travel: don’t disrupt the timeline. The same thing probably applies to alternate universes.

Assuming, of course, that that’s what this is.

And it must be because Bruce scans Tim from head to toe, then says, “You’re Robin. But you’re not...”

_Not my Robin._

Tim swallows. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how I got here.”

Bruce squeezes his shoulder. The weight of it is not-quite-familiar, but his voice is, the same solid, reassuring tone Tim's Bruce sometimes uses. “We’ll figure it out.”

They do try, but in the end they don’t have to. Tim drinks tea and eats Alfred’s homemade shortbread—a little too crumbly, not quite as good as Tim remembers—and sits in a brighter version of the Cave while Bruce runs him through everything he knows about parallel universes. It’s not much. Tim looks around and wonders where Jason Todd’s memorial case is. He doesn’t ask. He hopes it means Jason is still alive.

It takes three days. Three days of wearing clothes that don’t quite fit and working with Bruce and lying awake at night, wondering whether this is all some kind of surreal dream. Things are different, but not that different. Bruce is happier. Alfred’s hair is longer. Tim hasn’t dared to ask about himself; he thinks it’s better, not knowing.

On day three, lightening cracks through the sky and the ground opens up again. Tim feels himself pulled toward it like gravity, but a hand on his shoulder stops him before he can fall. He looks up at Bruce, sees Alfred hovering in the doorway into the house, expression unreadable.

“I’m sorry,” Tim says. “I have to go home.”

“I understand,” Bruce says quietly.

 _Oh_ , Tim thinks, a little detached, too hollow to really be sad, _this is a universe where I’m loved. This is a universe where I’m missed._

“Maybe I’ll come back some day,” he offers.

Bruce smiles and it’s—sad. It's really, really sad. “Better not,” he says. “You might not be able to get home again.”

He’s right, but Tim thinks he would have rather clung to the hope of an impossible maybe.

“Take care of yourself, B,” he says, and he thinks his smile must look just as sad, if the way it feels is anything to go by.

“You too, Tim.”

Bruce lets go and Tim is falling, falling, falling—

Caught. Bruce—his Bruce, the right Bruce—doesn’t say anything, but he pulls Tim against his chest in a crushing hug—and honestly? That says more than any words could. The hold is tight, all-consuming, and it feels—good. Right. Like Tim could sink right into his arms and he wouldn’t be let go.

So he does. And he isn’t.

Bruce holds on.

 _Maybe_ , Tim thinks, not as tentative as it would have been twelve months, _this_ _is a universe where I can be loved too._

_Maybe it's one where I am._


End file.
